


time, my favorite spiral

by vipereyed



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eliot and Margo are social media influencers, Everyone hangs out in Brooklyn way too much, M/M, Miscommunication, Muggle living, Penny is sick of everyones shit, Slow Burn, quentin is oblivious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: Nothing was different though, was it? Here at Brakebills Quentin was still forced to deal with the issues that plagued his previous life; there would be no escapism for him here.In which Quentin is thrown into a timeline he isn't sure he can escape from - or if he wants to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the idea for this pretty much came about because alternate timelines/wish cliches are my favourite cliches, and i rewatched season 1 and i thought, 'wow what if quentin did something totally impulsive to prevent getting expelled' even tho he wasn't going to actually be expelled but, you know, anxiety and self sabotage are a hoot. anyway yeah this story largely takes place during season 1 and is AU from there. i hope you all enjoy :) title is taken from 'spiral' by sales

_time, my favorite spiral_

_your friend gave me an_

_eye roll, eye roll, eye roll_

_tables turning_

_the moment,_

_of this burning._

_\- 'Spiral', SALES_

 

_In out in out in out._

These were the tried-and-tested breathing techniques Quentin tried to employ as he made the long walk back to his dormitory from the faculty building. He’d learned the breathing exercises in one of many group therapy sessions and they did little in terms of helping remedy his anxiety then; the mantra wasn’t exactly quelling his anxiety now, although it did sync up, like clockwork, to the rhythmic booming of his rapidly beating heart.

_In out. Ba-boom. Tick tock._

With every passing second and each step taken, Quentin was all too aware that the sand in the metaphorical hourglass was running out; his time at Brakebills would be coming to an end, sooner than he imagined. Just when he thought he finally, _finally_ found somewhere he belonged, the place that quite literally made up ninety-percent of his dreams—only to be _expelled_ what felt like seconds after. Expulsion wasn’t truly the worst part – Quentin supposed he could live with that eventually. It was the prospect of having his memory wiped, of not remembering or knowing _anything_ about Brakebills, that would destroy him.

To find and fall in love with a place only to be faced with the prospect of not remembering it. How fickle life could be, and life, it seemed, would never tire of kicking Quentin Coldwater when he was down. Perhaps whatever gods existed made a contest of seeing who could push him to his breaking point; that would make sense. The thought very nearly caused hysterical laughter to bubble from his lips before Quentin bit down hard to contain it. Once the extent of the—activities that lead to his expulsion began circulating around campus, Quentin was sure he would look crazy enough. There was no need to add to it now.

The Physical Kids’ cottage was subdued as he entered, devoid of the usual raucous laughter and clinking bottles, and strangely bereft of the undercurrent of weed that wafted in the air most days. The few students that were lounging around kept their noses buried in their respective books, otherwise paying Quentin no attention, and he found that he didn’t mind. He offered no greeting or pleasantries as he made his way up to his room; distancing himself would make the inevitable so much easier on everyone involved.

Isolation, along with other forms of self-destruction, always came easily enough for Quentin that regressing into such toxic habits felt akin to slipping into a second skin.

Sinking into his bed and staring at the off-white ceiling, Quentin let his mind wander as he tried to keep the negative thoughts at bay; a near-impossible feat when every intrusive thought was, in fact, true. There was no way for him to argue with the titters of how stupid he was, not when his own stupidity had culminated in him ruining what was surely the only good thing in his life at the moment. Of course, helping Alice was something that a friend would have done, and aside from that, the type of act that Quentin would read about in books and fantasize about doing; on paper, a risky, heroic deed that would pay off in the end. In practice, a near-death experience that left him with more questions than answers, and subsequently caused him to monumentally fuck up a good thing.

Fuck, even Harry, Ron, and Hermione didn’t end up expelled after fighting a fucking _troll_. Not that it mattered when Hogwarts was most definitely fictional – though Quentin had largely assumed Brakebills was as well, but perhaps they could benefit from enacting some more liberal policies.

“Shit.” Rubbing a hand over stinging eyes, Quentin let the racing thoughts consume him as he blankly stared at the ceiling. The thought that all of this could be his Last – his Last Time in his dorm, his Last Time cognizant on campus – registered, and a heavy sigh escaped him. Instinctively he wiped a hand over dry eyes once again, although he was too numb to cry or express any outward emotion. Dr. Jennifer would probably refer to such a state as ‘dissociative’, were she here; although if he were to inform her of his experiences at Brakebills and with magic, Quentin had little doubts that Dr. Jennifer would be quick to jot down ‘delusional’ in his already thick file and requesting her patient be hospitalized indefinitely. The thought was almost amusing, if not for the fact that Quentin never wanted to step foot inside the hospital again. He wanted his Last Time at the hospital to indeed be his final stay.

Struck for the first time at how dark his dorm was, and noticing slivers of moonlight filtering through the blinds, Quentin silently marveled at how _fast_ time passed. Not that he was a stranger to wasting the day in bed; such activities were an unfortunate norm for him, much to the dismay of his mother and Julia, when she was around. During the worst of his depression, Quentin recalled isolating himself from everyone (mainly Jules and his family) while simultaneously craving their presence – despite knowing that it was him, and him alone, that had caused such irreversible rifts in his relationships. Now, though, he found he was grateful for the solitude; there was peace in being alone, in the essential mourning that this was. Besides, there was no love lost between him and Penny; if he didn’t have a final moment with Penny, Quentin would hardly care much about _that_.

A crash that was suspiciously similar to the breaking of glass sounded from downstairs, followed by a timbre of amused, if not drunken, laughter. Eliot’s laugh, Quentin recognized with the ghost of a smile on his face. Laughter that he would notice anywhere. A girlish shriek, no doubt Margo’s, followed. Quentin wondered what he was missing tonight, what memories El and Margo would giggle over and inform him of in hushed whispers tomorrow. He felt his throat begin to tighten at the knowledge that soon, this too would be a forgotten memory. Maybe he’d already had his Last Time with Eliot; maybe it was a moment he deemed unimportant and would soon become forgotten forever.

Images and faces danced behind Quentin’s closed eyelids; Eliot’s blinding, dimpled smile, Margo’s sharp, dark eyes softening when she was with him and Eliot, flashes of Alice’s blond hair and the sheer determination along with the undercurrent of desperation as they partook in that ritual, Penny scowling at him, lips curled in dislike. Everything – all of it, Quentin had taken for granted. Everything would be forgotten soon, and Quentin would be lucky if he found flashes of them in dreams, or in brief moments of lucidity after he likely went back on medication.

 _It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all._ The quote appeared in his mind unbidden, the works of Alfred Lord Tennyson that Quentin recalled reading in undergrad. Jules had agreed with the statement and he at the time felt similarly. Of course, that was before both of their lives had taken the turns that led to their current situations. Having never loved at all also meant never experiencing the grief that occurred when losing said love, or in this case, never experiencing the literal magic of Brakebills meant never having to return to the dullness of a life without it.

What did that life even mean anymore? Yale? Therapy, medication? The same despair he’d tried to escape?

“Fuck,” Quentin heaved another sigh and forced his body to move off of the bed and towards the window so he could close the blinds. The last thing he needed was Penny coming in, hungover as all hell, and complaining about the morning sunlight. Upstate New York was so different than the city – less pollution meant seeing every shade of ebony in the night sky, and Quentin was able to actually make out twinkling stars that resembled dulled orbs in the boroughs.  “I wish things were different. Just this once.”

Nothing was different though, was it? Here at Brakebills Quentin was still forced to deal with the issues that plagued his previous life; there would be no escapism for him here. Such wishes were child’s play, or the follies of the optimist. Light reflected from the stars back at him knowingly, mockingly almost, in the knowledge that wishing on them changed absolutely nothing.

Suddenly overcome with the dread of what tomorrow could bring – a dread that weighed heavy in his bones – Quentin staggered back to his bed and burrowed beneath the covers. He could get through this, the part of his brain that remained hopeful in spite of serotonin deprivation encouraged. Just like everything else in his life, he’d get through this. Maybe. Hopefully. Muffled laughter sounded from downstairs, once again Eliot’s, and Quentin smiled sleepily despite the active part of his brain warning him that thinking of Eliot before sleep was perhaps a bad idea. Such warnings came too late, however, as Quentin found himself being pulled quickly into sleep, into dreams of a male body pressed against his own and a voice that sounded suspiciously like Eliot’s whispering low, flirtatious words in his ear that would make both of them blush in the waking world, but caught in the world between dreaming and consciousness made Quentin’s body ache with something inexplicable. He would deal with that in the morning when he had time; right now, he would succumb to whatever images of Eliot his mind conjured.


	2. Chapter 2

Quentin woke to the melodious tune of birds chirping—a sound that would have normally been perfectly pleasant, but when coupled with a throbbing headache, quickly became a nuisance. Sunlight was beginning to stream into the room and he screwed his eyes shut, listening to his pulsing headache and the annoying birds. Birds that were only getting louder with each passing second in the way that real, actual birds didn’t. Quentin groaned and stretched his aching body, the tendons popping audibly as he did so, and tried to think even though any activity made the risk of making his headache worse than it currently was. God, this was worse than a hangover; perhaps he did at some point during the night end up joining Eliot and Margo? That could also explain the birds. Such jokes were definitely up the duo’s alley.

With one last groan for good measure and determinedly ignoring the persistent chirping (which, he was beginning to realize, had a static quality to it) Quentin opened his eyes and blinked the remnants of sleep away…only to notice that the room he was currently in was not his dorm. It wasn’t his childhood bedroom, either. It even lacked the cold, sterile environment of the hospital.

Quentin scrambled out of his bed at once, ignoring the protests of his head and body as he did so. His foot immediately connected with a small, square object that he belatedly recognized as a cellphone – and the source of the chirping. An alarm, of some sort. He squinted down at the innocuous iPhone, wondering where it came from; he’d left his phone before attending Brakebills, and even then, he didn’t have an iPhone. His preferred device was an Android, both for practical and financial reasons, both of which Julia wouldn’t let him live down. Regaining some of his senses at last, Quentin bent down and swiped left, finally ceasing the sound. The time read 10 A.M. He’d have class right about now, or perhaps a meeting with the Dean to discuss his future (or lack thereof) at Brakebills.

“Fuck!” Quentin muttered, Anxiety Mode effective as memories of the night before, and his impending expulsion, began to cloud his mind. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He was meant to be getting ready for class or preparing for the destruction of his Brakebills memories, and instead he was—here. Stuck _somewhere_ with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. Maybe this _was_ where he’d have to stay while awaiting imminent memory loss, his brain supplied unhelpfully. Quentin supposed he wouldn’t be surprised at this point.

Aside from the cellphone, he recognized nothing from the room. The apartment he stayed in post-Columbia was a typical city closet; this was more of an adequately sized, actual apartment, and so way out of Quentin’s line of credit. This wasn’t Jules’ place either; no, it lacked James’… _characteristic_ cologne clinging to everything. Sometimes Julia (and by extension James) did stay with him, especially during nights of cramming, but there was nothing that suggested another person sleeping over or even living there.

The feeling that things were very _off_ began to settle in Quentin’s chest as he got a better look of his surroundings. None of the artifacts in the room even suggested that Quentin himself had ever really lived here; gone were the collection of socks he’d acquired from numerous hospital stays, the clothes were all his size but unfamiliar and not a style that he would wear, and the extensive library haphazardly strewn about his room seemed to lack a certain Fillory series.

Quentin could feel his heartbeat increasing, headache forgotten, as he glanced about. The sound of traffic confirmed that he was still in New York at least, albeit in the city and not the rustic, scenic solitude of upstate. Despite the furniture appearing to be impersonal and definitely _not_ anything Quentin would buy (the bed was, upon further reflection, quite uncomfortable), there were Polaroids strung up above his bed. Blurry depictions of himself and Julia stared back at him, smiling carelessly in various memories that Quentin could safely say he never experienced. Maybe this wasn’t a joke; a dream would make more sense, although he hadn’t experienced dreams this strange since starting antidepressants.

Medication dreams were the worst, and a horror that Quentin thought was long behind him after stopping them; they’d persisted awhile at Brakebills, much to Penny’s dismay (arguably out of concern for his own sleeping schedule rather than any care for Quentin) but the possibility of reoccurrence was real enough, especially after quitting cold turkey. He wiggled his fingers and counted off to five as he did so – an act that used to help ground him during the worst of SSRI induced nightmares; for some reason his fingers used to always appear distorted and so noticing their strange appearance would help remind him it was just a dream. Now, Quentin noted with morbid dismay, all five of his fingers were normal in size, shape, and clarity. As a last resort he attempted to perform the spell that he did in front of admissions when ‘applying’ for Brakebills; unfortunately, he succeeded in nothing but intricate finger movements. Great.

The sound of a phone—his phone, evidently—ringing broke Quentin out of his thoughts, only to bring more confusion as the contact photo displayed a selfie of Julia and him. Grabbing the phone the way a drowning man clings to a lifeboat, fumbling fingers accepted the call.

“Jules! Thank god. Listen—uh, you’re not gonna believe what happened, or maybe you will, but—“

Laughter rang out on the other end of the line. “Q? You okay? Actually—tell me later. Where are you anyway, it’s almost eleven and you have class today. We were supposed to get coffee, remember?”

Quentin furrowed his brow as though Julia could see it. “Wh—what? Class?” It seemed even in—wherever he ended up, words, anxiety, and depression were still problems for him. Classic life.

“Uh, yeah,” Julia said slowly, carefully, sounding just as confused as he was feeling. “Did you drink last night? I know you’ve been feeling nervous, Q, but grad will be over before you know it and then you’ll have your Masters and you’ll be happier for it.”

_Grad_? “I—yeah, yeah, I guess. I’ve got to, er, go. Get ready for class and all. I’ll see you in class?”

Julia sighed, a staticky sound, and when she spoke Quentin could hear the annoyance creeping into her voice. “I told you we don’t have any classes together this semester,” Quentin grimaced as this was apparently a fact he was supposed to know, and clearly something Parallel Universe Julia had to explain to Parallel Universe Quentin many times. “But yeah, I’ll see you later. Maybe we can get dinner together. James won’t be home til later.”

Clearly, this was also a universe where James still existed; did life ever _stop_?

“Sounds good.” Quentin confirmed before taking a few seconds to listen to the dial tone after Jules ended the call. With a sigh, he began thumbing through the pictures saved in his phone, praying to whatever god there was that he’d saved his class schedule in there the way he used to do in undergrad.

*

The class in question, it turned out, was Romanticism; a subject Quentin was not particularly drawn to, but he would manage. Any attempt to cling onto some semblance of normalcy was welcome. Thankfully, he also appeared to be dorming at Columbia, which made the walk to class easier even if he did use the Maps feature on his phone, just to make sure that the campus he knew and loved didn’t change in this strange, arguably dream-like world. He enjoyed Columbia but given the choice wouldn’t attend graduate school there; that alone gave him renewed hope that this was some sort of SSRI withdrawal dream.

The lecture halls were just how he remembered them thankfully, with no new additions or oddities. At this point Quentin wouldn’t be surprised if animals began to talk, or if another world awaited him within his wardrobe. He scanned the room for a seat, although he felt woefully unprepared to dive back into the strict world of academia, but the familiarity of his surroundings was refreshing after the events of his morning. He opted for a seat in the corner next to a young woman clad in a short dress, her fishnet clad legs bouncing in unheard rhythm, a woman he recognized as—

“Kady!”

Kady raised a dark eyebrow but otherwise nodded her head in greeting, although slightly hesitantly.  “Uh, hey.”

Quentin dropped himself into the seat next to her and tried not to wither at the obvious look of distaste she gave him. He leaned closer,  eyes boring into hers as he did so. “I don’t know where Penny is, but everything’s fucked up. Maybe it’s—I don’t know, like. Some school thing?”

Kady huffed out a laugh, curls tumbling around her as she shook her head slowly. Her eyes raked over him, the amusement evident. “What the fuck are you going on about?” Her mouth dropped open as she leaned impossibly closer towards him, which sent Quentin moving instinctually back. “Did you smoke something before class? Wow. I didn’t think you had that in you, Quincy.”

“Quentin. It’s—it’s Quentin.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” she shrugged, giving him one last glance before going back to whatever it was she had been doing. Quentin now noticed she was doodling in the margins of her notebook. Seeing Kady here at Columbia was strange in itself; he knew she was smart, having had a class or two with her, but he never pictured her as the Columbia type. To him Kady was always more of an ‘art girl’, maybe better suited for NYU or The New School.

“You just gonna stare at me? Or are you tripping balls? Whatever it is just don’t have, like, a bad trip around me. I’m no one’s babysitter.”

Fighting back the blush that threatened to spill onto his cheeks, Quentin mutely nodded and decided to focus attention on his phone. He’d never subscribed to the hype surrounding iPhones, but he wasn’t opposed to enjoying a free one; ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ and all that jazz. Maybe it would even help calm his nerves before his still-unknown professor showed up—wherever he was, Quentin hoped that this universe’s version of him had done whatever assignments were expected. The thought of having to explain _why_ the aforementioned assignment wasn’t completed, and his apparent transition into a completely different world, would be the shitty cherry on top of the shit cake that encompassed most of his adult life.

More students were beginning to file into the lecture hall now, some talking amongst their groups. Kady hummed absently beside him, a tune that Quentin thought he recognized as being from The XX or some similar band; he wouldn’t ask, though, as Kady would likely ridicule him if he did. His attention was solely focused on his phone – social media was a great insight into an individual’s life, and he wanted to understand who he was as he existed here as much as possible. Instagram was the first app he checked, and he was dismayed to note that his own posts consisted largely of literature quotes and scenic photos. Was he boring in every lifetime? Quentin sighed to himself and continued scrolling idly through his feed, past the occasional posts from Jules and others that he assumed he must know. Most of the photos were the same; selfies, pictures of food, memes, and the occasional Manhattan skyline—all lovely aesthetics, but ultimately giving no clues as to what was going on.

Quentin scrolled faster until the posts began to blur into one, continuous photo montage. The app began to buffer when he reached the bottom of his feed (quite an achievable feat when following only thirty people) before ads sponsored by various corporations and local attractions began to pop up. One of them was for a club, or a lounge of some sort, in Brooklyn. The nightlife had never been Quentin’s scene but this place – The Cottage, apparently – looked nice. The sponsored photographs – all Polaroids uploaded to the app – showcased clubgoers drinking, dancing, and generally having fun. He swiped through them with detached interest until coming face-to-face (or more accurately, thumb to screen) with the dark, laughing eyes that were all too familiar, the recognizable face molding its features into what could only be described as a terribly sultry and confusingly attractive pout. And there, on his outstretched arm, was another person Quentin recognized all too well; scantily clad in a barely there outfit that had her tanned, mile-long legs on display was Margo Hansen, an arm wrapped possessively around Eliot as she winked and stuck her tongue out for the camera. It was then that Quentin noticed the caption, the words ‘PARTY WITH BAMBI AND CHAMPAGNE KING TONIGHT AT THE COTTAGE! SWIPE UP TO RSVP!’ jumping out at him.

“Fuck,” Quentin whispered, scrubbing a hand down his face. Somewhere, there was the thud of an object hitting the floor. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Kady said nothing, choosing instead to observe him with a sort of voyeuristic, twisted amusement, but he paid her no mind. It wasn’t until he noticed the sudden emptiness in his hands did Quentin realize the sound he heard had been his phone, hitting the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the positive feedback <3 i really want this story to have a sort of dreamlike, surrealist, quality so that the reader is as confused as quentin is about his new surroundings, and i hope you all feel that when u read this :)

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos as always appreciated :)


End file.
